


Quandaries

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [12]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen, Horse Racing, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1637, Blois. Porthos visit to Bragelonne has been a pleasure, but it inhabitants were forced to address some thorny questions raised by his presence. On top of that, he bought a new piece of land...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quandaries

_God has given us two hands,_ __  
_one to receive with and the other to give with._  
_~Billy Graham_

Bragelonne was not ready to receive visitors, but Porthos found it charming; Athos, almost ten days after, was still trying to assay if his words were pure courtesy or if he was really at ease in his little manor. Bragelonne was not ready, especially the house staff, anyone but Grimaud, Charlot and his wife was either scared or amazed by this loud gentleman who commanded like a master and joked like a peasant; while the real master of the house tried to maintain the discipline, without any apparent success. Bragelonne was not ready, and yet land, house, and people were having a guest. Yet, the best part of having Porthos as a guest was that he knew how to occupy himself without the need of having Athos by his side at every turn. As an example, today he was not around the manor; Athos and Raoul took their breakfast without company for the first time in ten days, Porthos rode out early with Mousqueton to take care of some personal affairs. Raoul missed badly the big ex-musketeer, but Athos realized the first food of the day tasted better without wine and he could speak to his child better without the booming laugh of Porthos sounding constantly on the dining room. Without oases of peace like those, Athos would have found his patience rather thin.

Athos, with a big sigh, pondered the facts as he watched how Raoul amused himself with a hoop made of a tree branch, a toy his new friend made for his exclusive delight. Was Athos having regrets for opening his home's door to his old friend? Not really. Raoul was sorely neglecting his studies but he was happy, the books could wait. His cellars were almost exhausted, there was not need to worry yet, and they are on the middle of the harvest. Athos's only remorse was for the wine consumed, he was aware his head was heavy, his movements were clumsy and his side was tender and it was starting to send some worrisome pangs.

A small grunt by his side distracted Athos from his meditations. Grimaud waited patiently behind him and presented his master a mug that let a faint smell of herbs. Tea, as was usual by these hours.

"Thank you," said Athos. Although Athos was not thirsty, he realized Grimaud's strategy: If the master was full of hot water it would be easier for him to reject wine when the guest makes an appearance. "Porthos will be here soon?"

Grimaud just grunted and covered the place with a look. The saloon was a little shabby, the silent testimony of two old friends that spent a night between wine and dice. The servant knuckled down to work in sullen silence, his attitude was less deferential and more judgmental than usual. Athos knew his valet was not happy because his work conditions were not suitable anymore; he opened his mouth but the promise died within. What use could have a promise if the other person doesn't believe in your good faith?

Raoul cried out his joy. Grimaud picked up the bottles. Athos raised his mug. It was as normal as it could except for the implicit threat in the eyes of the servant and the shame on the master's countenance. As Athos gulped the first mouthful of tea, and Grimaud carried away the empty bottles, the question was not _what_ but _when_. Both of them knew that it was just matter of time before Grimaud enforce his own warning and leave without a look back. These tense days were only the preamble of their lives without the other.

Alone, Athos tried to drink his tea.

There was no use. His body rejected the tea and Athos needed to sit in the windowsill to control the retching. Athos closed his eyes and tried to force his body to behave, it made no sense that it accept gladly the poison and reject violently the antidote. Inwardly, he cursed his lack of will; there was no need to drink for four and, while he suffered a renewed assault, he admitted to his secret heart that there was any need to drink at all. He had to stop; he wouldn't survive if he keeps this train of life. It was the weight of the look over him that cut short the commiseration fest. A heavy look, cold with disgust, hard in its despair, Athos opened his eyes just a fraction and searched the source around his person. Grimaud was polishing the glass and silver tumblers in stone cold silence; his eyes used to see his master warmly and this baleful look was a shock.

"I need to curtail the meat again..." Athos mumbled when the waves of nausea gave him a respite.

Grimaud grumbled his scorn while he tidied up the shakers. The word carried by that huff was pure censure: "Wine."

There was no need to sweeten the pill to old Grimaud; mainly because he's the only person that really knew Athos inside out. If someone ask this man why his master was drinking, he would have a well thought answer and more articulated than the one Athos could give. Sometimes, Athos wanted to ask him directly, to force the problem out and to display it into clear and precise words, but he never dare. Athos was the son of his father, and never made a question of which he couldn't like the answer.

Another question, fated to be unuttered and thus unanswered, formed on his brain: _Why are you still here?_ Grimaud was a lot more reliable than him; if Grimaud said he would go away, he would go away, no matter what. Athos, figuratively and literally, had picked up the bottle again, for more than a week; somehow he had formed the idea that Grimaud would be going the very next morning they arrive Bragelonne; that his valet would put up with his inebriation just because he wanted to recover his meager personal effects, but that stubborn mute was still here.

"Are you done?" Athos asked when Grimaud placed the containers on the center of the table.

Grimaud shook his head, there was still job to do in that room, but his eyes darted toward the door. That simple detail helped Athos to guess the reason of his staying in Bragelonne. A child was poking his head by the door jamb. Blaisois' unruly long hair was in need of a good clipping but Athos hadn't found any way to command Grimaud to shear that mane; that interference on his valet's personal affairs seemed uncalled for.

"I wish to be alone."

Grimaud nodded, picked up his cleaning cloth and went to the door without a glance or a smile to his master, as would have done at other times. His valet didn't care to please his master anymore and he wasn't eager for his approval.

 _Stay by my side_ , Athos wanted to beg. Of course, those words will never ever leave his lips. Not even under torture.

Athos sighed as the boy went to Grimaud's side and his little hand darted toward that silent man's rugged hand on his way to kitchen. He didn't need to see Grimaud's face; he knew too well those slouched shoulders and that gait to recognize from far away how pleased Grimaud was with this little caress. Athos had been there with Raoul, he was not callous enough to cling to Grimaud, using Blaisois like a hostage. When that little roamer come trampling Bragelonne's gardens and the priest asked him to give the boy a home, Athos just did it without a regard to the eagerness on Grimaud's eyes because Raoul could use a playmate. Now, it doesn't matter if Athos had the child by the baptismal font, Grimaud was the godfather, the only one who loved and cared for that little orphan boy.

How long would before Grimaud shall have plenty of his master's attitudes? How long before he figured out that he would take Blaisois with him and no one would have the heart to stop him?

**...**

Porthos came to the mansion like a gust of wind, calling Athos out with his great voice, but that didn't disturb the master of the house. Porthos threw his sword and cape over a chair with his best flourish and Athos didn't stir from his place on the windowsill, he just kept his relaxed stance, with his eyes lost in the distance and his hands around the empty mug. That was a personal offense in Porthos' book, but he didn't let that soured his good mood, he just passed his arm behind Athos' small back and picked him up.

"Wha-?"

Athos had not time to say anything more, since Porthos made the most of that movement and Athos found himself wrestling to save himself from a disagreeable meeting with the floor. The mug clanked on the floor while the two of them applied the best of their repertoire of holds and pushes. A wet cat wouldn't be less angry than Athos for that rude awakening.

"Are you ready to pay me some attention, my dear _host_?" Porthos said when Athos finally regained his feet and his senses.

"I'm ready to wrassle you into good manners!"

"It's that so?" Porthos beamed him a big grin. "You are lucky. I'm up for a little tussle!"

Both of them lounged forward, hands clasped to avoid grapples in that restricted space, taut muscles on the back, feet solidly planted. Porthos tried to overwhelm Athos with his weight, leaning forward, but Athos was not so easily intimidated; he applied his iron wrists into subdue Porthos' arms, bending his elbows and driving the force from the back to the chest. Porthos gave a step back, his mighty arms defeated from the wrist up, Athos' iron fingers were pushing his hands backwards; soon the movement would force him into a dishonorable retreat, therefore, it was necessary a shift in strategy. Athos' fingers lost their grip on Porthos' left hand and his body moved forward suddenly, a small exclamation left his lips. At that precise moment, Porthos need to launch his attack. A swift push with the hips and the free hand on the opponent's arm, materialized on a perfect throw on the side.

"Oomf!" It was not the most flattering commentary to that flawless technique, but at least Porthos got a reaction from his despondent host.

It was even better when Athos hooked his leg around his knee and made him fall to the floor. It was like the old days when they used to burn the spare energy like bear cubs, Athos tried to straddle his bulk but Porthos turned over and tried to topple him. Athos tried to apply force to counteract his shove, but his side was tender and the wave of pain gave Porthos the advantage. While they struggled to exceed the other, Grimaud passed by their side with exasperated grunt, getting ready to carry the glass and silver tumblers away to a safe spot. Athos tried to steer the fight away from the furniture, but it was nigh impossible with Porthos' weight over his body.

"Leave my _pa_ alone!" a young voice surpassed the racket, surprising them both.

Raoul couldn't miss the pained expression on Athos face, he had seen it a couple of times and had feared it since. The opportunity arose when Porthos pinned Athos to the floor, then like a squirrel, the child clambered Porthos' back and threw his arms around that thick neck, barely missing Athos' face in his zeal to defend him.

"He got your grip, Athos!" Porthos laughed aloud while Raoul tried to improve his headlock with his legs around the adult's ribs.

As soon as Porthos rose from the floor, Athos sprang to his feet and passed his arms around Raoul's body that let him be picked up once the scuffle was stopped. His little face was lit up with pride. Athos' face was not so happy when he put his child on the floor.

"What was you thinking, Bragelonne?"

Raoul flinched, Athos voice showed his annoyance with sharp tones. It was obvious that Athos had never addressed that way to him before. Porthos could notice that Athos was just expressing his worry over Raoul's safety, but the child seemed hurt by that chiding.

"How dare you...?"

Raoul didn't let him continue; he turned around and ran away. Athos tried to follow his child, concern etched all over his face, but Porthos was quick to take him by the arm..

"I'll explain the whole affair to Raoul," Porthos said with conciliatory mood. "Do us a favor and put on your boots and spurs. I need you in another place."

"I should do it."

Athos, who was used to hide his reactions very well, couldn't help to show how upset he was. There was no way Porthos would let him face the child again until he had time to settle his ruffled feathers.

"Please, Athos." Porthos slapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let me see if get some experience handling children."

**...**

The small figure by the sycamores was slouched and shaky; Porthos need no more reference to know how to address the boy. Without asking for his consent, Porthos picked the boy up and carried to one of the stone benches. Raoul let out a small exclamation that cut short his sobbing; obviously in his four years no one handled him like one could handle baggage. Before the surprise ran out, Porthos sat that little man on his knee and produced a big kerchief which promptly used to wipe away the tears.

"Tell to Porthos what upset you back there," the big ex-musketeer asked once Raoul blew his nose and the kerchief was returned to its place.

"There was nothing, M. du Vallon," Raoul replied trying to save face. "I'm sorry I came uninvited."

"Well, on my part, you are forgiven for that little slip, but I want to know why you go away without an invitation."

"Do you need an invitation to go away?"

"Either that or an order," Porthos confirmed with a mocking, severe tone. "It's especially important if you are in front of the Count."

"Blaisois said one of these days Grimaud is going to go away without notice," Raoul share that bit of information with a sigh.

"Who's Blaisois?"

Silently, Raoul pointed out to the corner of the house. Grimaud was busy with the laundry and, in his shadow, a kid almost as young as the one in his lap, was handing him the clothespins. Porthos closed his eyes, weighing his role in that domestic affair.

"Does that make you sad?"

"Yes," Raoul swung his feet with his eyes down. "It also makes Blaisois sad."

"Then, I'll talk to Grimaud, but tell me why you ran away."

Raoul looked up Porthos; his eyes were starting to well up with tears again. Porthos wondered how Athos planned to cover the sun with his hat, if this child was made of the same wood: hard on the outside, soft in the inside.

" _Pa_ yelled at me."

The hurt was spilt out with the words; Porthos brushed away the bangs from Raoul's forehead. "Do you want to hear a secret about your _pa_?"

Raoul shook his head, "He would be angrier."

"I don't think so. He would never know, wouldn't he? You and me can keep a secret, can't we?"

Big, wet eyes saw Porthos, a quivering lip hung a little before a couple of arms went to his chest and that suffering face was buried on a rich doublet covered in dust.

"There, there," Porthos said while patting that curled hair, a little embarrassed because he never though Raoul would took shelter in his arms. "I know the Count is scary sometimes, but he loves you."

"He yelled at me!" Raoul sobbed and pull himself closer to his friend, a magnificent feat on itself, since the lap had a very constrained space.

"Because he was scared out of his mind, Raoul," Porthos rocked the crying child.

The little head shoot up and his eyes gave Porthos notice of Raoul's disbelief. " _Pa_ is never scared!"

"The Count is very capable of being scared, Raoul." Porthos said gently. "Not very often, I give you that, that's why he loses his marbles when fear visits him."

"But I tried to help him!"

"I bet he imagined _you_ , crushed below _me_. I do not think the idea of an _omelette Raoul_ was very attractive to him."

Laugh bubbled behind Raoul's lips, as every child he had a very active imagination. Porthos let him laugh, it was better than to hear him cry.

"Just remember, Raoul, every time he roars, it's because he want to keep you safe, not because he's mad at you."

"Is that true?"

"Did I ever lie to you?"

Raoul said he didn't, and then he began to explain how much scared and guilty he was, but Porthos was not paying him attention; his mind was sorting out how to warn Athos that his right hand was about to abandon him.

**...**

Athos tried to settle his weight on the saddle. A short trip, Porthos said; it would be good for Athos to take some air, he said; just a little ride out to help Raoul to calm down, he said. He didn't explain, though, how to let Raoul play with Blaisois at home while they ride out would help the child. Athos tried to rein his temper just as well as he reined his horse; but the shakes and tremors of that horseback outing was not helping the pain on his side. Next to him, Porthos was babbling aloud about a heiress of the neighborhood who wanted something or another thing, Athos was not really paying him any attention, he was too used to let him talk until he would get tired of talking to himself and asked for some confirmation that Athos would give with deference but without interest.

"So, what do you think?" Porthos asked to him with a big grin, once he signaled a stop on their trip.

"About what, specifically?" Athos took off his hat to wipe away the sweat of his brow. It has been a very hot day; he had been sweating buckets all day long.

"About my new property, of course!"

As Porthos said those words, he opened his arms to signal the view before their eyes. Athos was utterly unimpressed. His escapades around the country had brought him to the little settlement of Bracieux more than once, and there was nothing remarkable on the landscape, if Porthos bought it he better be sure the farms would be rentable, but Athos kept his opinion to himself and composed a little smile.

"Quite quaint, Porthos."

"That's what I thought," Porthos alighted while Athos put back his hat. "I bought it from an impoverished vidame, I bought it all: castle, three farms, and cattle for a giveaway price," looking at his new kingdom with a faint smile on his lips, "everything except the title of which his owner didn't consent to part away."

"That's a shame, but you deserves better."

"You are right, as always," Porthos took Athos' reins. "Bracieux is mine and now, I give it to you."

"Either I'm drunk or you are," Athos snapped with cold voice, but his horse tried to rear out, as he felt Athos' change of mood, "but I heard you utter some foolishness."

"You used to be sharper, Athos," Porthos said trying to conceal his ironic smile. "What did you said to D'Artagnan, there in La Rochelle? A benefit reproached is an offense committed, or something of that effect. Memory is not what it used to be..."

Memory was never Porthos' main virtue but Athos let it pass. Now he had an interest in that one-horse town because it could be the reason he would had to lay out one of his best friends with a hand-span of iron between chest and shoulder blades. There are things his pride wouldn't suffer willingly, not even if they are served by this big Picard.

"You took good care of a poor newcomer in Paris; without your intervention, I might not have ever been Musketeer. To not acknowledge your kindness would be rude, but to repay said kindness in your person would be an insult," Porthos articulated his arguments with the same hesitant voice of a pupil trying to answer one of his teacher's questions. Athos noticed he was thinking aloud. "I'm not paying your attentions in Paris with this little mud-splashed town, Athos. It is far from my intention. _Peste!_ " Porthos took off his hat and scratched his head before turning his eyes toward his friend. "Do I need to tell you I loved Raoul since I saw him? Now he's _my boy_ and you better take good care of his properties, because Bracieux is my gift to him."

"Far too generous for a snot-nosed brat who is far too rich right now," Athos commented in wry voice.

"Raoul is rich." Porthos concurred and let go the reins. "Yes, I have seen Bragelonne; nonetheless, he's not rich enough to be my boy."

"You are annoying me. I advise you to restrain your generosity."

"No, and since you are so reluctant, I'll take care of this land myself. It will give me an excuse to visit my boy frequently." Porthos put his foot on the stirrup and put his weight on the saddle. "Raoul is meant to be a great gentleman like you. Some day he will be a fine groom and Bracieux would be his land, but for the time being you will receive the income and spend it on his upbringing."

Athos pulled the reins and felt the need to bang Porthos' head. "You can't force me to accept it."

Porthos saw his glacial expression, knowing too well that Athos was ready to take his hand to his sword. Disdainfully, Porthos smiled at him.

"You can't refuse," his reply was served with sweet tones. "It's a gift for Raoul. You just happened to be the person who manages his riches."

Athos just pulled the reins and his horse gave some steps back, startled. Porthos had him between a rock and a very hard place. Such an offer was an insult, Athos wouldn't take charity, not even from the hands of the King himself; at the same time, and Athos couldn't refuse a gift for his son. Athos cursed the wine and Porthos in passing, because he never should have confessed that kids are expensive and now he was in this ominous hold, which was even more uncomfortable than the ones Porthos applied when they wrestle. His horse was getting frisky by the minute so he better keep his cool.

"I can't accept it, Porthos," Athos bent over to give his horse a caress to keep it calm and to avoid Porthos' eyes. "You are now head of a family."

"A family composed by two." Porthos said with a huff, "Do not fear that you put me to inconvenience, Athos, my lands in the valley are enough for a lady who developed some thrifty habits while she lived in Paris."

"You want a child."

"And you have a child, and as far as I can see, Have is bigger than Want."

"No way you change your mind, right?"

" _Parbleu_ , no! I got this idea, and I stick to it!"

"Then, as Aramis used to say: let's take the half."

"Of the town?"

"Of the gift," Athos rose again on his saddle with a wince. "I'll take care of your new castle and your new farms, but I shan't take a _sou_ ," Porthos grumbled his disagreement, but Athos didn't mind him, "unless Raoul need something I can't provide."

"It doesn't suit me: I want you to spend it in Raoul."

"Trust me, Porthos. Raoul is well cared now, for giving him more would spoil him," Athos diverted his eyes to check his feet on the stirrup, "besides, God might give you a son anytime soon."

"And, if He doesn't?"

"Then, I'll let you do as you please," Athos conceded with a sigh that sounded like defeat, "but until that day, I refuse to take possession of your personal assets."

"That's some progress!" Porthos spurred his horse and shouted over his shoulder: "Come on! I'll race you to Bragelonne so you can draw up the accord to your liking!"

Porthos horse started with great impulse, in complete disregard of his rider's weight who was laughing happily and loudly. Porthos had his reasons to be so cheerful, after all, he had managed to bend Athos' will, and it didn't matter if it was just a little concession. He wondered if someone besides the king and M. de Treville had managed to pull that feat from the ever-proud ex-musketeer.

The footfall of his friend's horse sounded close, this was going to be a hell of a race if Athos was still in full possession of his sports enthusiasm. They would be unable to maintain the speed for long ―the poor beasts had their limits―, but they could reach the border of the forest before the call it quits. The dark head of Athos' horse was visible by their side, and soon the rest of the body passed Porthos' mount like an exhalation.

Porthos stopped the race and turned around.

Athos was lying on the dirt road...

**...**

Bragelonne was forewarned of the incident. The horse returned scared and without the master in the early night, that was enough to stir up a hornet's nest; but the service, led by Grimaud, was held tight to discipline. Mousqueton was impressed.

"Are you not going to send someone to search for _M. le Comte_?" Mousqueton asked his silent companion once the Viscount was seated at the dinner table.

He placed his query in earnest, but quietly, so they don't disturb the child who accepted the simple explanation that his tutor and the guest were on Blois. Grimaud shook his head and tightened his lips.

"Why?"

"He's with your master," was the reply as Grimaud peeked out the window to the courtyard, the grooms were getting torches and horses ready on the quiet, so they didn't disturb the little master. "He's safe."

"And if my master returns?"

"Then, I'd worry."

Briskly, Grimaud left the window, he had to put Raoul's to bed at normal times, that way he would minimize the hassle. Mousqueton went to the kitchen. A little snack would settle his upset stomach. He was sure his friend was not going to lose his cool that night.

Mousqueton was wrong, because when the child was in bed the big gates of Bragelonne were open to give way to a tired horse, loaded down with two riders, one of those, covered in dirt and blood. Mousqueton was by Grimaud's side as the hand which bore the torch waved erratically and the face which was lit up by it got the pallor of the funerary statues.

"Bring a surgeon," Grimaud ordered to his second-in-command. His voice was deep, and choked, yet clear.

Charlot, that was the name of the fellow servant, was a good fellow, but not the brightest candle of the castle. He tried to oppose some good reasons: it was dark, the nearest one was at Blois, maybe the Count was not so badly injured...

"Obey or be masterless!" Grimaud barked and ran to the stairs followed closely by Porthos who carried the insensible, and probably broken, body of the master of the house.


End file.
